Scattered memories
by Not a sexual predator
Summary: Always one step behind, you follow the Chosen Undead. Regardless of your reason, you are never successful. All you see is embers in the fireplace, long-finished battles, and the trail of messages he leaves behind - perhaps for you, or perhaps for himself.
1. Undead Asylum (1)

Deep within the dungeons, between cells and bars, between darkness and the faint light that manages to filter through the thick clouds up below, lies a small parchment. Written with small, almost diminute letters, in a caligraphy that is both somewhat absent as it is immersive when it meets the eye, the time it had lied there was probably the reason why the few eyes that manage to graze upon it must do so with perusal, for they had became almost indistinct from the withering paper. If one has the patience to descypher the almost glyphic message, it will read:

_There used to be a time when I sang to the nothingness. There used to be a time when I danced for nobody. There used to be a time when I cried for myself. I do not remember them, no, and I lack the proof I'd gladly accept in order to confirm those apparently nonexistent times. But, there is a glimpse of evidence that I am not merely imagining any of it, that I am not merely trying to give sense to this now void existence of mine: I remember how I felt._

_Yes, I do remember that. I doubt I'd ever forget such feeling. I may not recall when my throat ached from singing, when my mind blurred when I spun to the compass of a slow-paced serenade, nor how my cheeks grew damp trails after the passing of my tears. But, instead, I recall perfectly how I joyful I felt when my voice overcame the singing of the birds, I recall how passion filled every single mote of my body as I spun and jumped, and I recall how battered I felt after tasting the salted tears that escaped my eyes. I doubt I'll ever forget that._

_Sometimes, when I look at this, my cell, I do want to forget them. I want to forget that I experienced something so beautiful, so intense and so... pure, yes, that is the word. If I forget, will I be able to finally forget about this pain? The pain of being imprisoned here, all alone, of hearing the writhes of all those other souls that had lost themselves to solitude when I am, as I believe, the only one who remains remotely sane. That pain, yes, that I what I wish to finally let go of my existence._

_I doubt I will ever see the Sun again, as my cell and the ironic bared window that decorates it does not allow me, ever, to glance at it. I doubt I will ever escape, that I will dent this armor of mine in service, or in duty._

_But I still hope. I am a hypocrite. I wish to forget and to let go of the grim thoughts I hold on to, for they are the only thing I remember, but I secretly wish to break free and finally remember again. _

_Isn't time supposed to make us forget?_

**_Isn't time going to make me forget?_**


	2. Undead Asylum (2)

Outside the walls, up the ancient steps, towards the dim light that filters through the grey skies, lies a helmet by a cliff. The helmet itself, rusted by age, yet unhindered by scratches nor dents, presents a, perhaps nostalgic, nostalgic fashion proper of now extinct times when silver and gold flowed in abundance, before hope and death became the most valuable ideas in people's minds. It's hollow visor gazes towards the horizon, towards the nothingness of the empty abyss before it, almost in a poetic stare at the future. At least, if one were prone to sentimentalism. The curious, whom indeed would not question such powerful need to inspect the antique, would encounter yet another parchment, yet this one almost of none resemblance of the one found deep within the dungeons as ink flowed freely inside it, with proper spacing, written with paused and steady hands, yet the same air of melancholy as the previously encountered script.

_**Ten thousand eight-hundred seventy-one.**_

_Ironic how, when I stared below, my fear invented such number to represent itself on a logical way. Yes, that is the number. I do not know what it means, if it's the distance from here to the bottom, the steps I've taken to reach the cliff, the number of breaths I had remaining, or perhaps the amount of days I've remained between the four walls of the now overdue cell. I do not know, and I certainly do not wish to._

_Why? It is clear. Because I, of all others, have escaped. I have escaped! I have slapped myself numerous times, pitched my cheek and bit my tongue to reassure myself that this is not just another dream, yet I have failed. I am, indeed, free. It's curious how, after wishing to finally escape that which was my imprisonment for years, for decades and possibly for a whole eternity as it was for myself, I am now scared and paralyzed. Curious, indeed, how I never imagined what I would do right this very second, but instead imagined myself surrounded with a family that may or may not be something I have had, how I felt once again the rain against my flesh as I may or may not have felt, or how I would quickly forget about this nightmarish stage of my life as I may or may not have lived..._

_But I never imagined that I would simply deafen. I never imagined the skies to be ashen, bitter and morose as they are now, instead of clear and blue as I wish to remember them. I never imagined the breeze that filters past this helmet that served as my identity as a man to be so cold instead of the warmth I thought it would give me. And, I certainly did not imagine my very knees would crumble me to the cold stone when I finally set foot outside –that-. –That-, which awaits behind me with an open mouth. –That-, yes, which had swallowed me for who knows how long, that has kept me secluded from the world, from myself, and from the warmth with tall walls and hard bars._

_I am afraid to look back, to gaze unto the edifice that held me prisoner, that erased most of the memory I held, that holds the desperate cries and wails of thousands of beings like myself, whom had clearly let go of their past and died to become empty and broken. Lucky them, I'll admit._

_But –that- is behind me, yes. And so are the acts I have had to commit to fight my way past the gates that finally opened for me. And so is the one humble enough to lend a hand to a forgotten being such as myself, to share a key, to share a few words for me. Let him rest there, let him die, let his prophecy wither with time and his words echo across the empty skulls of those who came before him. Let my past also vanish, let it fade in the darkness. I want to leave them here, indeed, for they are a heavy burden. Their weight had increased with every step I've taken outside my cell, my place, for they seemed to come back with my sweat, the same way my hands recalled the motion used to claim a life, the same way my face contorts when my image is the last I see reflect in the lifeless orbs of my victims. I pity myself more than I pity them._

_I write this in tears, as my reaction to freedom is the exact same one as a long forgotten childhood memory. I remember I had a small bird in a cage – pretty much as I was not so long ago. I do not remember a name, a shape, a color, but I do remember it was indeed a bird. One day, I had discovered the bird had escaped, perhaps after I failed to lock him back inside, perhaps after it carved a hole between the bars, or perhaps due to a third member aiding him. I do not know, I do not remember. But I remember I did feel joy, and sadness, as I watched the only feather remaining in the cage._

_I want this helmet of mine to be my feather. I want this parchment to be part of my burden. For I feel joy, eternal happiness, as I finally feel the breeze on my features, and as I struggle to decide if either to scream to the skies or fall to the ground, if either to stand up proud or to give up and hurl myself into the abyss. But I also feel sadness, for I fear that I will possibly not leave a name to be remembered with, I fear that I will not be able to forget now that I am not in chains, and that I will have to remember more, and more about someone I used to be so long in a distant past._

_Perhaps I should have never left my cell._


	3. Firelink Shrine (1)

[The bonfire was cold already. The embers of the fire that one roared with pride in the night sky had gone extinct, silent and forgotten. Yet, even if the darkness was all around the ruined surroundings, there was a beckon, an invisible lighthouse or a metaphorical string that pulled you towards the somewhat cozy spot that held heat and light not so long ago. But, as you approach, you can notice a certain silhouette laying nearby, almost peacefully, apparently an armored man in deep sleep. It was a hollow, but nothing more than a cold and rotten corpse wrapped in layers of metal, characteristics you may notice as the fire slowly rises. And, as light finally returns, if not a bit dimly, you notice the edge of a parchment sticking out of the defeated undead's mouth. Those bold enough to inspect such detail closely will encounter yet another sample of that known calligraphy and format, the same ink and the same thoughts behind it. The same simplicity of thought, too, as you begin to read through the scripture, whilst the distorted shape of a long dead tree hangs nearby to haunt perhaps those whom feel watched in the omnipotent darkness.]

_I had a bird once, when I was but a child._ _I cannot remember if it was a gift to me, from my parents perhaps, from a friend or from a stranger, nor if I captured it when it was free, if I raised it when it was but an egg. Yet I remember it was the most beautiful being I had seen. It's feathers were golden, gleaming so bright that I could not help but to stare at it for hours, through the day and through the night. I never knew what type of bird it was, but I always thought it was a raven. Perhaps it was those bright, intense red eyes what made me believe that, for whenever I felt its eyes on mine I cowered and looked away, slowly marched out of the room, shut the door and returned some time later. Whenever it looked at me, it kept its gaze fixed with such force that even my body was shocked. But I kept it, for a while, as I was enchanted by those golden feathers, the same way I was terrified of those red globes._

_It was calm – most of the times. Without warning, without reason, sometimes it would start chirping hysterically, flying in its cage only to violently slam itself against the iron bars. Few times I was a witness of such behaviour, but I always found either red stains on his plumage, or I'd simply find the broken feathers lying around the cage. I started to worry, of course, for I considered that bird my treasure, something unique forged exclusively for me. It was like my crown, which made me a king. But after its revolts, it returned to that omnipresent peace it displayed most of the times. That serenity... I doubt I will ever forget it. How it looked outside the window, how it opened its wings for the breeze that swayed its cage, how even its beak was left agape to savour the essence of freedom that came and go as it pleased. _

_Some time later, either weeks or years, the bird was no longer graced with that beauty, as it chaste golden feathers had became scarce, and its flesh was scarred and wounded from so many futile attempts to break free. Not only I did not find any more liking in such creature, nor in it's previously elevating presence, but I also remember started to feel it's melancholy as, through most days, it watched the outside world with its usual pose. I began to imagine it did not want to live the rest of its days in my cage, in my domain. I began to imagine how I would feel if I was to be tortured with a life I would never experience if I was to remain but a mere witness, secluded between bars. So I set it free, thinking that it'd stop hurting itself, that it'd halt it's violence as it was once again reunited with its natural home. Or, perhaps, that it'd learn to live normally after some time._

_But I was wrong. As soon as I opened it's cage outside my window, the shabby bird flew out with a battle-cry, struggling to fly at first but quickly adjusting. I thought it would be happy, joyful, or at least thankful for being set free, as I watched outside my window, but I never imagined that it's time spent in my cage had turned that joy, that longing of freedom, that wish of happiness into hatred and rage. I remember how it's first objective was another bird, a dove perhaps, a magpie maybe, and how it's beak punctured through that innocent creature's neck until it was nothing but a falling corpse. And so, I lost his sight in the horizon, as it flew enraged, as it landed from nest to nest, spilling blood, breaking eggs. But, some nights, when I woke for no reason amidst the night, I can remember those pure red eyes staring at me from the window, and I was even more horrified than I was before._

_I never named that bird, nor I ever knew if it was male or female. I never touched its plumage. I never dared to seek its gaze, to try to understand what the message inside them was. And I regret it since. Now, I believe I am that bird. My cage, which I belive was my prison cell, perhaps my past, or perhaps my helm, is long behind me. I do not wish to cause harm, I do not wish to bring tears to anyone as that bird brought to me. I wish to fly away, to find that stream that will bring me to harmony, to distant lands that can bring joy, to company that can arise a smile in my lips._

_Even now, after all these years, I think those red eyes watch me from the distance. I cower, I hug my legs and bury my head, but I cannot help but to fear these hands of mine. These hands, whom once desired to hold something precious in them, yet only brought decay and ugliness, only to create a monster. _

_Have my hands changed? Can they create something beautiful from scratch? Could they return the golden feathers to a monster?_


End file.
